doodles of a doppelganger

The Wait (Season 6)

2011-10-26T20:49:00.000+05:30

Valiant butterflies wrestle to keep alive dreams
A patchwork of poppies splay my waning green
Seven chords a strung, I hear the faraway raas begin
A flurry of colors veil my fluttering heart
New year's arrived and still no you in sight
Tears flow camouflaged by the bubbly spring brook's dance

The Wait (Season 5)

2011-10-26T19:39:00.002+05:30

Smog blinded I walk through the chill
Harsh winter gravels echo the lone footsteps
Indignation sits dry on my bleak cold brow
Sundown hastens ignoring my sighs;
Holding on to the warmth of you isn't easy...
I stare into the campfire, my bones remain numb
Radiance dispels the dark only to mock the dying boughs

The Wait (Season 4)

2011-09-24T01:52:00.000+05:30

Heaviness descends in chilly gentle gusts
Evenings lazily romance the glorious dusk
Miseries mate my dreary autumnal wait
As the fragrance of fresh jasmine distemper
Nebulous skies of sweet heady memories
Twilight hastens to herald the night
Another day disappears without you.

The Wait (Season 3)

2011-09-20T00:25:00.002+05:30

Silver shadows shine and shower
Heaven's graces in pious spendor
A lilting Malkaun, temple bells peeling
Rhythms resound a Raas unfolding
Alas! my Chauth freezes all time
Dark Diwali mocks my lone unlit lamp

The Wait (Season 2)

2011-09-13T20:34:00.002+05:30

Vagient skies torment
And I drench in my own cold tears
Resilient I wade through mud splattered lanes.
Shivering like a wild wet creeper my
Heart clings to the wet barks of a dream
Awaiting the succor of its sun

The Wait (Season 1)

2011-09-12T02:30:00.002+05:30

Gaunt greasy limbs totter
Remedial winds no where in sight
Eerie redolence of the past
Ease by; invoking humid
Sweaty deliriums
How I wish you were here
My fever rises. I sit nursing
An unquenched thirst

Beer10

2011-09-11T01:45:00.002+05:30

They disappear one by one;
The quiet hours of the day
And the glistening twenty four in the crate

Beer 9

2011-09-07T01:25:00.001+05:30

Heartbreak, bawls and accusations
Mark the saga of love
And a spilled pint

Beer 8

2011-09-05T01:23:00.004+05:30

She dances
To the tune of fizz
My carnival tongue

Beer 7

2011-09-03T01:21:00.001+05:30

Heat rush
Heady Hearts
The power of Gold

Beer 6

2011-09-01T01:14:00.004+05:30

A warm flow
Waters chin and throat
Tongues flower eloquent

Nightly Vigil

2011-08-27T03:00:00.000+05:30

They will not

Cast an Evil Eye

Only unblinkingly stare.

Cold, wary

Distant, alert

Like clean cut mica

They glisten

Probing the dark

The new pair of silver nails

On my repaired door handle.

August 15

2011-08-15T20:56:00.001+05:30

No I did not venture out of doors today
By habit
15th of August is a bandh
Not a celebratory holiday
But a bandh
Declared or otherwise

You honour the day quietly

Saluting the Tricolour granddad hoists

At 6:00 AM

Quietly, very quietly

You utter a prayer

for the wellbeing of the nation

And then you run down
To find your place
In front of the living room TV
(Or the radio
If there is a load shedding)
Before breakfast

That my friend is the Sacred space

That transports you

To the Red Fort

To the Judge’s Field

For the annual speech

On Freedom, progress, development

But you do not get to venture out
For to be free
You need to be alive first
Getting gunned or blasted
Stoned at or whacked
Did not serve the purpose

So you sit at home and

enjoy your freedom

By doing pending chores

(read homework)

Watching a patriotic movie

On DD1 or 2

By reading
boring retrospections
On socio-economic developments
And what freedom meant
To the 20 most influential people
On Page 3.

And ofcourse by tuning

Into debates on bandhs

On stepmotherly love

To states like your own

And to top 20 deshbhakti

Bollywood numbers.

I grew up and out of home
But the habit grew on me
For I know little has changed
This day, the 15th of August
Is a bandh not a celebratory holiday
Declared or otherwise

The zero power table lamp.

2011-06-12T20:56:00.002+05:30

It glowed
Like the scary little
Glow worm on my
bedside table

And served the same purpose
of sending my sleep back packing
( though mum hoped
it would do otherwise)

Green halogen shadows
look best as Disney villains
They serve no good
on bedside tables

Grinning eerily
It throws phantom figures
Where sanity once recollected
Comforting blankness

I tell you take it away
Let me sleep
in the relaxing ambiance
of the familiar pitch black.

Beer 5

2011-05-16T12:51:00.001+05:30

Twenty minutes
Noisy gulps
A pint of memories

Beer 4

2011-05-16T12:50:00.003+05:30

Empty pitchers
They sit cross-legged
Sipping souls

Beer 3

2011-05-16T12:50:00.001+05:30

Calypso beats.
Rhythmic gyrations
Whoozily bubbling bodies.

Beer 2

2011-05-11T22:33:00.002+05:30

Lilting lullabies
Lightly lace
Lager and Life

Beer 1

2011-05-11T22:27:00.001+05:30

A gush of life
in blended gold
Bonus burps

Ponytail Diaries 1

2011-05-06T23:04:00.001+05:30

UNEDITED BACKGROUND IMAGE SOURCE PAGE: http://www.hair.becomegorgeous.com/professional_tips/quick_and_easy_hairstyle_ideas-1275.html

Walking Down

2011-04-20T22:15:00.001+05:30

Kolhapuris flip flop
Over pebbled lanes
And tarred roads

A pause
Some local dus rupaiya nimbu paani
And the walk resumes

With a squint
Gaging hawkers' carts
And signal-flaunting two wheelers

Another eye warily
Drinks down the Herculean lap
To the other side

Flip flop goes the kolhapuris
Back on newly cemented pavements
Deftly avoiding cracks

Same old routes in the same old city
Same old faithful kolhapuris
Just a new walk eveytime everyday...

And its Raining...Again

2011-04-17T18:23:00.003+05:30

And its raining
Once again
With a rhythm
thats known to only
You and me

Playful patters
Gushes of gale
Darkening clouds
Impending hail

The streets deserted
Shutters down
They all run in

But you will not
Nor I

To drench is to be
Alive again
To drench is to be
What we missed
For so long

So dont make me
Shield you tonight

Let the torrents
pour down your soul
And let me be
your umbrella
soaked in the rain...

Still (?) Burning

2011-04-16T16:03:00.000+05:30

No more yearning
for heated passions
of rosy wilderness
of incensed emotions

I have frozen
mellowed
melted
with passing time

And yet I still blaze
with a cold fury
No more a shadow
of my past
or perhaps as just that
A mere shadow
of a lost self
still vividly traceable
Yet irrevocably lost...

Crossing Over

2011-04-11T16:18:00.000+05:30

And the wily
old crow
throws me
a shrewd glance
as I cross underneath
her thorn-encrusted bower

The fool
she doesn't know
Hell gates collapsed
The day I realized
I must and I will walk on.

Indifference

2011-04-11T12:28:00.002+05:30

Orange seeds carelessly
Ornamenting the stub of grass
at the empty park bench's feet

Tell me a story

of carefree lovers
en-rapt in their own secrets

To buzy to notice

The joy of hopscotching
truant school girls

The befuddled dusty pup
pursuing its own elusive tail

The tea seller's
Disarming gaptoothed smile

The disapproving frown
of guards doing their rounds

This is a story

of indifference, my friend,
enveloping two souls.
Blissfully oblivious of the world...

Puffs of Smoke

2011-03-28T00:12:00.000+05:30

Ephemeral
Diaphanous
Wispy ribbons

Mesmerizing
Provocative
Entrancing

Swirling dervishes
of my pir they remain

Surprised? Was I ?

2011-03-25T23:41:00.000+05:30

You thought it would be fun
To catch me naked
To whet your palette
In my unease

You thought I would pose
another veritable Venus
Ready for your gaze
Ready just to tease

You were sure you will make of me
A nimble lissome nymph
Unabashed and seductive
Happy to please

But I am not ready to
unveil my shame
Though you catch me stripped
huddled to my knees

You bind me to the canvass
pigmenting my despair
and then you call me surprised
Were you an unexpected breeze?

Every eye which glanced your paints
Cast me a voyeur's eye
Pray accord at least
my dignity a release

Painting: Edouard Manet. Surprised Nymph. (Nymphe surprise). 1861. Oil on canvas. Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Desecration

2011-03-24T22:58:00.002+05:30

No chips no scars
No smashed glass panes
No graffiti screaming sacrilege
Just sand
Plain crusty grainy pellets
of sand
Stand testimony
To my desecrated dreams

I raised a temple
of fragile innocence
You defiled the trust held bowers
and razed down its very foundation
All you let stand
was the painfully reeking
hostile suffocating air...

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/16986762@N03/2311745072/)

In medias res

2011-02-27T16:32:00.003+05:30

I flew
Like a carefree bird
Breezing its way
Instinctively to
its station of bliss,
And you zoomed
in medias res
blurring distance
into a stilling motion
of light
that brushed through my senses
leaving me
in a windy tumult;
breathless
gravity free
knowing only myself
by you
with you
in you
yet-
so far far away
from you.

My horizon disappears
into a tizzy of pigments
But I cruise on
mechanically finding my tracks
even as I stare wildly
trying to decipher
the clouds from the sky;
and myself
from your
searching eye
awaiting my arrival
in the invisible distance
that closes and widens
with every second
of my speedy flight...

Painting: J.M.W. Turner: Rain, Steam, and Speed (1844)

When Writing Bites

2011-02-16T23:17:00.000+05:30

Blue Fangs

Glisten
in the murky dimness

A flicker of movement

One strong jab

In languid frenzy

A story trickles out
With reddened fury

Uncensored

Editing

2011-02-15T22:30:00.000+05:30

Thirteen words
Juggled. Jostled. Jousted.

A long breath.

Click. Highlight. Delete.

Another sentence
Murdered.

Fairy tale endings

2010-11-28T17:34:00.001+05:30

And then you went out
picnicking in the strawberry fields
Like a fairy prince
from an old forgotten bedtime story
Unaware of the beetle stings
that await you
Unaware of the gossamer web
waiting to turn you
into the black widow's victim...

I know not if you escaped
I fear eternity has gulped you down
But I hope so earnestly
that you remembered the
wise old bedtime stories
And got away
just as the clock struck midnight.

I look for you in the old
strawberry fields in daylight
All I find is a mellow breeze
And your fragrance locked
in the cold little bottle of time.

Speech-Act

2010-11-25T21:19:00.000+05:30

And they tumble around.
Lopsided but fragrant;
Half-burnt, half blown;
Snap-dragon faced
but gracefully gilded.

Like pepper-salted
Scrambled eggs
Repulsively intestinal in appearance
Seductively enticing to the appetite
They dull to whet your senses
They whet to dull your wants.

Words

They play you like nothing else does.

Today

2010-11-25T00:18:00.000+05:30

Afternoon rains
Muddy lanes

Snow white skies
Puddled streets

Wet crows stare
At honking Delhi traffic

Snapshots of Winter morning life in a PG for young ladies

2010-11-14T23:48:00.003+05:30

4:00 AM
doormat troubles
coffee laced highs
smoke rings
puffy eyes

tell a tale ruses

blocked noses

toying glued dew drops

on plastic roses

6:00 AM
alarm clock medley
irritated groans
sleepy goodnyts
sweethearts on cell phones

8:00AM
cheesy mantels
ketchupped notes
crumpled sheets
impending sorethroats

10:00 AM
bright mini skirts
smart polo tees
glazed smiles
dolled up zombies

Seasonal Colours

2010-11-14T20:07:00.000+05:30

And suddenly life changed its hues
The dull blue of pallid skies
Look the tint that glaze new feathers
in the tail of a fledgling peacock
still training under his father's watchful glance.
And the dust from the whizzing mercs
no more stands a reminder of
The mid-noon mid-summer Sahara
It flakes instead like grainy sugar
Coating the doughnuts at the bakery down the block
In welcome anticipation of the lone office goer
Stopping by to catch his evening cup of
Piping hot coffee with a smile.

The red evening horizon still turns a bright crimson
in the Halogen framed smoggy sunsets
No longer the skies from a radiation sci-fi camp
They bring with them a sense of warmth.
A warmth that oozes out of granny's knitting
A warmth that echoes in the purrs of the kitten
Nestled in the nooks of your giant paternal feet
A warmth that wafts out of mum's pantry
In the shape of a cinnamon laced apple pie
To the tables of excited schoolkids
Just back from their day's worth of
Academic grind in post-vacation uniforms.

And thus comes the royal winter
Stealthily into my city
Under shadows of the smoke curtains
Hoisted by a robust Diwali celebrating crowd
Changing not a thing yet changing so much
Changing perceptions of the pigments
That paint each waking day.

An Evening's Worth

2010-11-11T23:23:00.000+05:30

No I did not read my lesson plan tonight
The faltering tube overhead
Seduced all my earnest intentions tonight.
The dim light flickered;
Halogen rays from the neighborly room
Tip toed in as I sat hunched over
A half nibbled pencil
doubling up for a make belief cigar.
Here I was the Duke of my territory
Yet unwrit though triple-erased.
Equipped with the necessary paraphernalia
And tall intentions
( but tall intentions only).
And there above a failing benediction
That provided no inspiration
No concentration
Fit only to make macabre
The shadows of innocent lizards
Noiselessly coupling underneath
No I could not do my lesson plan tonight
Tonight is for shooting paper planes.

Maybe tomorrow the lights will change.

An Ode to a piece of Chocolate

2010-11-06T23:43:00.001+05:30

She melts
Like a shy little ice cube
She swirls
Creating different moods
She stains
With a waft of euphoria
She dances
Into imagination
She warms
Every corner brushed by
She glides
Into past present and forevers
She paints
A dreamscape of delight
She reigns
As queen of Pleasure.

Diwali

2010-11-05T22:10:00.000+05:30

Autumn winds
Red leaves silvered by winter mist
and senseless fireworks

Twilight Raking

2010-11-03T23:28:00.001+05:30

We raked up our twilight

In the buds of our youth

Our velvets lost their sheen

Our childhood its innocence

We raked as the sun set

Piling leaves on leaves

Killing out our little fires

Before they could gather wind

The nights grow chillier

The horizon blurs

We stand watching uncertainty

And the dying autumn leaves

Painting: Sir John Everett Millais Bt PRA (1829-96). Autumn Leaves. 1855-56 Oil canvas. 41 x 29 inches inches.City Art Galleries, Manchester

Rhapsody

2010-11-02T22:33:00.002+05:30

All framed up you stare ghoul like

Your name lingering with a garish redness

Perhaps creating too much of you all at once

Too much really for the eye to take in

You were made to walk down Marilyn's lane

Your rhapsodies lost in the cacophony of wars

And you stare still ghoulish like

Your name lingering with a garish redness

Too red to compliment the pigments that create you

Yet those colours do not jar

They only blind one's senses

Perhaps with the hope you will now be really heard

And you stare at me pink and yellow from a thousand prints

Yellow? or have you blued out?

In an incredibly blonde hairpiece

You just stare sending chills

Perhaps you found your immortality

in the double dyeing

Or did it kill you into

another block of inks?

Did you die a Nietzschean death

At last rid of the romantic paper halo?

or were you turned into a restless vampire

lording the blood-thirsty consumer world?

I hear you in the tunes now

Followed by the concert books

But I can still feel your stare

sending cold chills as I listen

And I imagine you stare at me ghoul like

Blue and blonde

Your garishly red scarf choking me

A thousand times all over

(Picture: Warhol, Andy. Print. Beethoven, Yellow Book )

Come Return my Stare

2010-11-02T00:09:00.002+05:30

For one last time I held her hand
And stared back coldly
At you who believed you cannot let us both be
At you who believed we could yet be
At your perusal
for love or disposal

You perhaps never imagined
The very storm you bring to my canvass
will lash out at you
And rip you asunder
While we survive
Bound by the slim lines
called Fate

Stare hard and you will see
Yourself in me
You will find that sham of modesty
Ripped open to every eye

You will find your own scissors

Splitting your arteries

to embroider your boringly staid self
in the threads
of your own bleeding passion

Stare hard and you will see
Yourself in me
You will find your essence
Beating; barren, worn out

You will find your emotions
Clutching your hand
over a hope that looses itself
in the folds
of your own imposed expectations

Stare hard into me
Into the self you have split into three
Dare you return us your gaze
indifferently

United in our fractured selves
We sit holding hands
One last time
For a last face off
With the mocking old fool
called Love.

Know you very well, I will not die alone.

(Painting: The Two Fridas, 1939, Oil on canvas, 67" x 67", Collection of the Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City )

Me

2010-10-30T22:45:00.005+05:30

"I sprout identities like cactus leaves

Until I forgot to be free

Now rooted in your colours

I stand not knowing me

Your halos crucify me

Let me be a veritable Magdalene

Dont swathe me in fabricated garbs

Shear my head of its locks of shame

My laurel self ornamented

Your painted landscape

I am but a dying bark

in a slime-filled bog

So many mes you created

You stripped me of my unkown face

I still stand naked bleeding

Invisible to your blind complacence"

New Pearls

2010-10-28T20:04:00.000+05:30

sun beams smile bright

new scars

glisten like pearls

The City Streets

2010-10-26T22:41:00.000+05:30

Buzy streets
Honks, hawks, hunts
Restless eyes.

Of Dreams and Realities...

2010-10-25T20:13:00.000+05:30

"Sandcastles break but dreamboats continue to stay afloat"

Maps

2010-10-24T00:04:00.000+05:30

-Who drew the line?

-Draw it again.

-Awesome!

-No that doesn’t look right.

-Will someone else try?

( She slinks wounded

Breathing gnarling snarling

Like a snake with a split midriff

Slithering out in search of a final

Resting zone.)

-Not bad.

-Not good either

-Someone draw another one please.

(The dust blaze up

Consuming gulping spitting

Like a hunger struck wildfire

Leaping in a shamanic

Vengeful dance )

-Oh look! How about this?

(She squirms and shudders

The settling dust raise

Another tornado0

Another line

Another Assam stands formed

Tottering struggling bleeding.)

-That’s decent

-Nah not yet.

-Lets do another one.

- So who shall draw the line next?

(She awaits the scalpel's experiments
barely breathing ...)

To the Goddess on Lakshmi Puja

2010-10-22T22:15:00.000+05:30

Today they have all lit up O Mother
Each feeble little wick
Each vulnerable waxen mould
They glow with pride
And sing your praises
With their light

But Mother do they know
they are burning out too soon?
Do they know their sacrifice will only lead
to a blaze of more greed?
Their split oil will further spill blood?

Your devotees bow down O Mother
Today in special reverence
The Goddess of Wealth may shower her blessings
So they hope O Mother

I hope so too O Mother
Your blind children are in dire need of wealth
Money has maimed their ability
To raise and nurture
The much need granary of peace and
basic human kindness

Bless all your worshipers today O Mother
They may have their glitter and pomp and show
But they are paupers in the world of love
And can barely make ends meet
They live from hand to mouth

Bless them with with the prosperity
required for a night's worth of peaceful sleep O Mother
For though they roam in chauffeur driven Lamborghinis
Their stakes in the stock markets of goodwill
Have crashed to an all time low

They have no other modus operandi left O Mother
Beggars cannot be choosers, its so true.
They have accumulated debts
of guilt shame and treachery so high
The pact with the devil has already been signed
And it is only you who can save their soul O Mother

O Goddess Lakshmi
Harbinger of Wealth and Prosperity
I join my hands to offer you my anjali
And this prayer is all I have to add
to the light of the already half burnt wicks
Let all the light lit not be wasted in vain

Let the countless homes and hearts
burnt away in a haste to reach you
not go unaccounted for.
The lamps are already lit O Mother
Let their light not usher in darker nights.

Arranged?!!!?!!

2010-10-22T00:05:00.000+05:30

"Try the pink with the blue."

"Gold, maroon and green I say."

"No wait, wear that yellow orange."

"I suggest you go for the elegant gray."

"Oxidized silver..,"

"No semi precious stones!"

"A plain gold bracelet."

"Not pearls!!!" (she groans).

"The new heels!" " Yes!"

"No go flat with those jootees."

"GO retro, put on the pumps."

"Wear the beige sandals please!"

"I will do your eyes."

(psst: "Don't let her cake your face.")

"Let me do your hair."

"Pass down the make-up case."

Some rustle-bustle

And three hours later,

She emerged transformed

and met her prospective suitor.

He ogled and scrutinized,

Mumbled a few polite queries.

She nodded demurely

and offered more savories.

He refilled his plate

The audience approved.

In another half-hour

The motion was moved.

Tomorrow the pandit

Shall proceed to match their fate.

If all went well fellows.

We'll soon announce the wedding date!

Him and Her

2010-10-20T23:24:00.000+05:30

Like a pharaoh

He surveyed the empire

a bird's eye view

offer a haze of colour

and a blurred out vision

of convenient opulence

The distance mutes

dissenting voices

He smiles in accent

To the cleverly

orchestrated community buzzing

Satisfied he returns

to an equally glitzy abode

But

She squats on his doorstep

her scrawny legs spread-eagled

Flies feast on festering sores

And a ragbag attracts the gaze

to more than what is covered

Oblivious she sings

With toothless charm

He with his deliberate distance

clouds her out

She with her ignorant obstinacy

continues to stay

An eyesore to the impeccable glory

She breathes unabashed

Move away he orders

Her bewildered stare only

questions back louder

Why should I go

When you don't see or hear me anyways?

Each day he boasts of his golden city

Each day he returns to a defeat of his illusion.

An Ode to His Cigarette Stick

2010-10-20T00:07:00.000+05:30

A twirling musky ribbon

does the vanishing act

Few specks

Embellish the old tin can

A languid warmth

linger on half parted lips

You disappear

Leaving subtle shades

And an unquenched longing

for the romance of grey

Revelation 2

2010-08-23T01:40:00.000+05:30

This world

believes in holding

little secrets. Some bizarre

some wild; some scary

some so simple

one never

realizes

they exist

until they

grow on

you like

creepers

on rusty

window

frames.

At times

you feel secrets surround you

But the path to them befuddles.

Sometimes

the only thing more elusive
than the secrets is the key

that leads

to their unlocking.

Revelation 1

2010-08-18T00:38:00.000+05:30

Misty, smoky

Pearl drops

Glisten

Like anathema;

Toxic florescence

of a deceptive seed.

Unbind the shutters.

Let darkened nights

be not cozened .

Tis the ignis fatuus,

the banshee's bait.

Revel !

Embracing blackness.

The White Light
only blinds...

Discord

2010-08-16T23:30:00.000+05:30

The keyboard sleeps
My head strums empty words
The fan keeps beat.

For her music was in the ears
It was in the head
He believed

I strum and grimace
My Words remain
--out of tune and place.

The keyboard yawns
half asleep half irked
I smile at my defeat.

Lost or perhaps in jubilant
Mastery of its own rhythm
The fan continues keeping beat...

10 days of Ennui

2010-07-30T22:25:00.000+05:30

Wake up brush teeth

Groggily gobble few tit bits

-thats breakfast.

Plonk back in bed

till digestion completes.

Stare just stare-

at the fan revolving,

at cobwebs swinging,

at lizards making love;

till emptiness reigns.

Reach out for coffee gone cold,

gone bitter and old.

Reach out and stop

Flop back into pillows;

Grimy with sweat and sticky dust.

Pull out Pull out!

Out to the bathfloor.

Wash out the grim;

Hang onto the stains of ennui:

Obstinate, tar-like.

In the musty airless cloudy afternoon balcony

Hang those washings and that blank mind.

For a precious quarter of a minute

Smoke that stale half-stub

Recovered from a forgotten pocket.

Write,cook,jog,talk.

Calculate bills; make love.

Drag the body back to bed.

Stare just stare- blank out

Wake up brush teeth...

My Story

2010-07-26T00:43:00.000+05:30

Twas fate

I witness

The scattered beads

Of shaken faith

Blue sheet

turn brown

Sharp steel glisten

Through the sheath

An eye

Shuts out

The needle bleeding

The vanishing I

Lost Love

2010-07-07T01:47:00.000+05:30

Today I suddenly feel nostalgic
A friend
I bid adieu
almost a decade ago
swathes me
in her memories

vignettes of the past
float like sketches on a story board
it is hard to ignore
the pangs of desire
that rise within

If only I could see her
once again.

She used to stand
By the highway
Cheery sunny.

I remember walking up to her
careful not to tread the wild flowers
that grew from cracks and corners
of the mosaic pathway
cushioned in the cozy lap
of that neat little lawn.

Sometimes a meandering cow
stopped by for a lunch time nibble

Sometimes a group of loitering kids strayed in
lured by the succulent robab tenga and
the feisty berries atop the tall majestic trees.

She would stand observing them all serenely
sometimes perhaps even indulgently.

Just as she silently watched over aita
gathering flowers for her daily pooja
and vegetables for her warm little green kitchen.

Everyday she watched koka take his morning rounds
at the chamber
and repose calmly on the veranda chair
sometimes counting stars in the night.

Everyday, until that fateful morning
when the dhura kauri caught koka's attention.

There was a time long ago
when she would wait in anticipation
for the couple to return from their soirees at Ledo
She used to welcome them with open arms,
lighting up suddenly
as the bright headlights of koka's ambassador
caught her in its familiar glare.

I like to believe
she used to get amused
when my toddler arms tried to
wrestle the hand pump into
operation
The baidews from the neighboring house
surely did
when they came to collect water
and found me intently
preoccupied
with the exercise.

I remember the hours spent in the attic
unearthing mahis' treasure troves
As the years rolled steadily by
With her as the silent witness
to my secret stories and furtive plans.

Life with her was such a joy
such a healing experience.
And then abruptly,
we had to part ways.
Leaving her I experienced
my first real heart break.
My soul cried for nights and days.
She had not ditched me
And yet I felt she did.
I cried
Resentful of her new found love
Resentful of the new home she set up
Resentful that a stranger had suddenly made her
a consort to his dreams and reality.

She and I no longer together
I cried at a friendship severed
cruelly, untimely.

(I know aita cried too
when she wished her goodbye).

Today out of the blue
Her memories ambush me
throwing me back
in time and space

I wish I could see her just once
once again
in the happy frieze of yesteryears
I wish I could go back to Margherita
Back to her arms

Back to the house koka-aita built.

Storyteller 2

2010-04-07T01:10:00.000+05:30

A cesspit stands tucked away
Behind a montage of silences
In a swampy unlit weed filled mass.

She pauses to inhale the preciousness
of a chilling air she cannot find elsewhere;
A cold and frosty air.

Dryland and sunlight: her friendliest foes
Seem but miles away from here;
They do not miss her just yet.

She enjoys the momentary respite
For the mad hounding back into civilization
Will soon begin to trace her track

The dogs have smelled her absence;
She has left sloppy tell-a-tale signs
Of a rebel broken free.

She squints into the darkness of the cesspit
And pauses to deliberate;
The intense blackness lures invitingly.

When the morning comes
Perhaps the mastiffs will sniff past
and get misguided by the smell-riddled swamp.

Or perhaps they will not
And willpounce with pride
on the solitary slipper on the rock.

The masters will perhaps follow
Stopping to examine the leafy shards
Of her garments trailing the forest floor.

They will shake their heads in silence
And perhaps whispering in relief
Retrace their steps to the stifling conundrum.

Somewhere inside the cesspit
Her fist-sized daughter kicks out in protest
And breaks her reverie.

The chilling air comforts her
And strengthens her resolution.
No she will not give up...

storyteller 1

2010-04-05T11:37:00.000+05:30

this is the story of a nameless walker in the city.
this perhaps is the story of a loveless lover hopelessly in love.
this is quite the story of a non-story called life.

torn jeans and torn dreams
go hand in hand here.
they walk through rush hour traffic;
they walk above the honks, whistles and the smoky tangle.

sometimes, the lonely eagle catching the aerialscape
is caught by the eye that aimlessly looks up.
in a city where one is buzy trying to avoid falling into potholes
of unsuspected felony,
the gaze upwards is a forgotten pleasure
momentarily regained to be forgotten again.

a lonelier couple sits talking at each other
sipping branded coffee in a posh locale.
they converse with their own insecurities
hardly hearing the other's plea for a ear.

the traffic outside is dimmed out by one's own verbal cacaphony;
the partner's voice is lost in that unheard traffic.
torn jeans and torn dreams walk hand in hand again
because love has long forgotten to hold hands with life.

construction boards pop up every corner:
no left turn no right turn no u turn no road ahead.
moving on here necessarily means retracing steps and turns.
one walks alone, one loves alone.
one walks, alone one loves...alone...
dead ends and a congested traffic greet and drown the lonely soul.

this is a world where stories stir up into life
and crumple into ashes before a word is written.
yet, it is a story
of faceless protagonists
of plotless episodes
of nameless emotions
of torn jeans and torn dreams...

A Year Wiser?

2010-03-23T22:58:00.000+05:30

When you wake up
What changes?
Time?
Mood?
Emotion?
Attitude?

When you wake up a year after
Do these changes become any less or more important?

When you wake up everyday
And let a year pass by unnoticed
Do changes become yet another routine?

and then you let day after day
take its toll on your aging grey cells
asking yourself

Have I changed
or has things around me?
Have I changed things or
have things changed me?
Can change be marked
by date, time and place?
If so
then what has changed?
Since yesterday
Since last month
Since last year this day...

And what will change tomorrow
when I wake up to yet another day?

3 DAYS in the LIFE of a RanDoM SPinsteR

2010-02-03T20:51:00.000+05:30

telephone bills
red ink refills'

exlover's anxiety

five stars and a melody

mango

plans for tango

roasted chicken sub

iodex and ankle rub

a little black dress

lovers in a mess

hot chocolate fudge

insomnia and drudge

liquor coffee

a well-wasted toffee

pasted soles

half-cooked rolls

endless papers

samosa and wafers

M 13 440

NYC sortee

yellow-orange flowers

two nutri-bars

an old Karbi folklore

a catfight outside the door

I will speak tonight...

2010-01-22T23:53:00.000+05:30

He didn't

Think I would

One day speak out

So loud, so strong, so bitter

From within a waxen mould

That - I could scream - and

shatter the freezing silence

was a feat imaginary.

He did not believe;

I could have

Power

But

Here I am;

Standing tall and bold

Speaking out to every sister who knows,

Who understands the pain and misery of

Being a prisoner in a castle; a plaything

Of the powerful, the whimsical, the old.

Nobody thought I could survive this ordeal

Nobody believed my frozen eyes could see

So many women subjected

To the same horrid history.

But my eyes did register

The pain of similar fate

As woman after woman

Was cast into the same silence.

Until the old little key got better
Of that young damsel's curiosity.

The whole world now knows her;

and the story that unfolded thereafter.

They all heard and retold of her bravery.

But we remained victims- first of his whims

Then, of history which froze our untold story.

Today I shall let you into the murky lanes of time.

Today I shall speak out of memories sullied by blood.

For I am the first beheaded wife of the fiend Bluebeard.

The Boat's Soliloquy

2010-01-22T00:21:00.000+05:30

Set

My eyes

On shores far

And sailed ahead

As treacherous winds

Tossed me about.

Dark waves

Fumed

As I

Lonely wayward journeyman looked out in hope

For the signs of a brighter peaceful clime;

And steady waters to continue my quest.

Will the raging seas get calm again ?

.... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

... . .. ... .. . ...

2010-01-19T22:05:00.001+05:30

red ants crawl

like

... . .. ... .. . ...

a convoy
onwards to battle

a bullet
flying caught on reel

a monitored heart
that has forgotten to beat

Dearest Luku Borta...

2009-12-28T14:33:00.000+05:30

This New Years
I will check my mail box as usual
Knowing full well that the first new yr greeting will not be there.
Ever since i got a mail account of my own, I have eagerly waited
For every festive occasion- big and small
You made it so special
With that personalized colorful greeting
And I felt so important
To have a card all to myself...

I remember every time I scored big.
You were always the first to come by and give me a hug.
Your voice blessed me every birthday
and every other day when I needed you...

Today you have decided to join
Countless other special voices in my head.
And I cannot let you because I am too weak to accept fate.
Forgive me borta for being so selfish
Please stay by me like you always did
Its just not in me to let you go...

Claustrophobia

2009-11-24T21:04:00.000+05:30

Sometimes my room looks menacing
when its dark
streaks of florescence streak languidly through the ventilator
and i sit watching
my own shadow bloat out
into a monster with ever changing contours.

On occasions like this
it is my believe
I see flashes of your presence
an undefinable warmth
that wafts around
easing yet making uneasy the smoky pillars of time.

Are you there?
Or is it always my delusions?
I try reaching out for your embrace sometimes
Sometimes I believe you are holding my hand
The morning comes with a crude reminder
of my lonesome self clinging to crumpled, empty wrappers of bitter chocolate...

Snapshots

2009-06-16T23:18:00.000+05:30

She smiles. Chubby-faced and curious eyed

Staring into her father’s face,

A little lady one year old

Resting on his sturdy arms.

She smiles straight at you at ten.

Proud and responsible

Little sisters stand by in identical pinafores.

A Cane chair just her size adorn the backdrop.

The sepia eases out into bright warm shades of girlhood .

Bicycles. Bright red bell bottoms. Round framed spectacles.

The greens of the fields merge into the yellow daylight.

She smiles mischievously with her hand straining at wind tossed tresses.

And is that a hint of a smile behind the veil?

As aunts hold up her nineteen year old frame

She stands demurely by a moustached youth

In splendid silks holding dreams and fears.

She smiles straight at you again.

With two plaits framing her happy face

Green curtains pep up the walls behind

And her first born snuggle comfortably in her arms .

She smiles from staircases, from sofas and balconies,

She smiles watching over children, standing by relatives.

She smiles posing by pets and hosting myriad events.

She smiles to welcome and to wave goodbyes.

Oil lamps throw hazy reflection as the evening sets in ,

With her mother beside her she stares into the distance

Greying strands caress her forhead in the breeze

She smiles detachedly as waters sweep away her late father’s ashes...

How many smiles have you kept frozen in photographs, mother?

Some secretive, some jubiliant, some dreamy, some satisfied.

Some bored, some distant, some forced , some well-rehearsed.

So many stay mysterious; they make me wonder.

How many of them are facades mother?

Masks put up for the sake of preserving memories?

I would love to listen to the stories behind those smiles someday.

Tell me mother will you let me in?

Hope

2009-05-12T21:59:00.000+05:30

I

And a

Lonely Dream;

We keep Faith.

We’ll exist

Like

.

.

A

Flaming  spark of

Unfettered  hope.

Like desires  dead

 Regenerate again;

Like an ol Phoenix

Resurrecting itself.

Like Daylight rising

From the ashes of a

dark dissolute  Night.

Me and my Dream;

We will see the ends of Time together.

We keep Faith that we will exist;forever.

...

2009-05-11T20:36:00.000+05:30

the darkness deepens;
green shadows glimmer on greying blades of grass.
footsteps drowned in the cacophony of tears
leave their invisible mark in muddy puddles of yesteryears.

the air leaves no space to breathe
but the walk continues.
and the darkness deepens;
green shadows glimmer on greying blades of grass.

stillness blocks uneasy pathways
and the hands lash out at nothingness.
until the air leaves no space to breathe
but the walk continues.

cobwebs from a past spread its poisonous tentacles
and strangle the embers of dying dreams.
while stillness blocks uneasy pathways
and the hands lash out at nothingness...

Waiting

2009-04-16T01:27:00.000+05:30

How many more nights will I stand guard

Over shattered pieces of a promised sunrise?

The daemons within are tired fighting

But they refuse to give in to crushing time.

When will my lidless eyes stop scourging

Deserts of darkness with unlit lamps?

My body is overcome with an immense fatigue

But it refuses to end the quest for its soul.

How many more summers will I need let pass

Until the ruthless winds change colour ?

The sheets have torn apart at the stains.

But the lost lullaby still awaits the music of a voice...

Waiting for Spring

2009-04-04T02:00:00.000+05:30

When will you sing of springs and joyous seasons?
Lovebirds singing swansongs are rare.
Birds in love singing dirges are rarer still
But its end of winter and new buds dot the boughs
Shouldn’t you be singing of the spring out of faith?
They won’t wait for your song to dance you know
We have our records in mp4s these days.
It wouldn’t matter if you stayed silent
Your resistance would pass unnoticed.
They’ll drag the celebrations till bohagi bidaii.
With or without you,
Speakers will blare “melodiously”
Till eardrums blast into nothingness.
But ... I want you to sing for me.
Tell me will you?
I can hear them beginning rehearsals.
Spring will soon b here they shout.
...I’ll wait...
My spring shall begin only with your song.

Paagalpanktiyaaan

2009-04-04T01:32:00.000+05:30

Kabhi is bhasha me likhne ki koshish karungi

Socha nahi tha

Aap ke liye kuch bhi.

Kuch bhi?

Kya kar sakti hu mai?

Do char pankti likhne ke vajai?

Nasseb ne haath baandh rakha hai

Ya shayad maine hi nasib ko baandhe rakha...

Ye nahi malum main kitni pagal aur kitni samajdar hu

Per shayad kabhi kabhi samajne ko bhi paglpan kehlaya jata hai

Ye nahi malum ye panktiya aap tak pohuchegi ya nahi

Shayad inhi panno me gumm ho kar rehjaye...

Kabhi parhoge to samajna pagalpanti

Pagalpanti ki hadd to nahi hai,

Per shayad ye dillagi thi?

Ya hai?

Aap ke liye kuch bhi.

Socha nahi tha

Kabhi is bhasha me likhne ki koshish karungi.

For a Friend...

2009-03-12T01:20:00.000+05:30

Its time to light up a candle and wish for the distant stars.
Time for a resolution and a firm step forward.
Time to let go of clinging nostalgia.
Time to shower away the dust of attachment.

Its time to blow out the smoky past and wait for a new sunrise.
Time for a dance and song of hope.
Time to brush off cobwebs of memories.
Time to treat away infectious desires.

Its time to snap shut albums and create new frames for the times to come.
Time to celebrate a happy eventful future.
Time to be born anew.
Its time to wish yourself "Happy Birthday"...

Once upon a time...

2009-03-03T23:24:00.001+05:30

They say the dead tell no tales.
What about the undead? I ask.
The zombies, the ghouls, the vampires and the shades:
Is silence their golden rule as well?

They say the living experience.
What about those simply existing? I ask.
The numbed out hundreds no better than lumps of breathing carcasses:
Do they know love, dreams and despair?

History never mute nor dead.
Ceases to exist every moment it comes into being.
It neither gauges nor sits unreflective
while nouns like Life, Death, Hope, Despair keep the cosmos in motion.

Some hundred years ago I lived. And experienced.
I laughed,I cried, I loved, I mothered.
I birthed dreams and witnessed their rape, mutilation and death.
I chewed up my progeny and spit out venoms in heartbreak.
Did life cease to exist or did living?
And did the end of either end the torrents of crusted angst?

A hundred years later I died and released my mortal self to dust.
I revisited familiar moments in time.
They imprisoned me in a glass bottle
And rendered me mum with a thousand different hocus pocus.

Today I stand dead, rotten, decayed and forgotten.
No longer a shade, for they succeeded in putting me to sleep.
And with me their own conscience.
Believe me.
The dead tell no tales.

Reflections

2009-01-19T23:02:00.000+05:30

It is not too late to begin all over.

The mirror shows me the vast distance between you and me.
Behind me
I see the miles I need to straddle forth on.

You may tell me it is an illusion.
A step forward would only bring about a collusion.
If I am standing too close to my reflection.

I hallucinate often these days.
I see you walking by without even a glance of recognition
It is perhaps because I am myself invisible
I am the mirror replicating your every stance.

The distance can be cropped to nothingness
I can only take the steps you decide to take.
Forward or backward

I repeat
It is not too late to begin all over
I repeat

Forward or backward
I can only take the steps you decide to take.
The distance can be cropped to nothingness

I am the mirror replicating your every stance.
It is perhaps because I am myself invisible
I see you walking by without even a glance of recognition
I hallucinate often these days.

If I am standing too close to my reflection.
A step forward would only bring about a collusion.
You may tell me it is an illusion.

I see the miles I need to straddle forth on.
Behind me
The mirror shows me the vast distance between you and me.

It is not too late to begin all over.

conversations

2008-11-06T01:57:00.000+05:30

its been a long time since i logged into a chatroom
conversing with unknown faces
used to be so exciting when i first got introduced to the internet

it baffled how an enigmatic other instantly pinged back

like in a phone call
one thing would lead to another
discussions bred new topics
only the voice would remain inaudible
and one had to imagine how the speaker must be saying things at the moment

is she angry, is she bemused?
does the smiley really reflect her genuine feelings or is it a faked mask
on an already invisible face?

what a far cry it was from keeping pen friends around the globe
earlier one waited for the unseen friend's reply
sometimes for ages hoping the mail wasn't lost midway

when i sat down to write back, i would often nibble at my newly sharpened pencil for ages
figuring an apt beginning, middle and end

i was in junior school then
still not introduced to the exquisite and delicate ink pen

i would be careful not to let creases or dirty finger smudges mar the smooth paper
often the paper itself required such careful deliberation and choice!
yes i had an array of writing pads..some with flowers, some with cartoons, some with abstract designs
and when i grew a little older there was one with a delicate perfume....but thats another tale.

i would be careful to keep my writing legible
even attempt to impress with a combination of neatness and artistry.

even then i never knew how my distant friend might respond to ,
i often wondered what kind of emotions did my letters bring to them when they opened their mail boxes?
yes i always imagined them as having little letterboxes at their gates or main doors
like most houses in enid blyton's world did

but the chatroom did not allow for such deliberations
it evoked spontaneity
even alertness and wit

often responses shocked my convent school "prudishness"
atleast that is the word people used to describe it anyway

for the first time i learnt not to introduce myself with my name and hobbies
one's "asl" became one's passport stamp

the chatroom could not retain its seduction for long
but alas my penfriends dwindled in number for not everyone found it tarnished gold

i no longer collect stamps from all around the world
its too expensive a hobby if you are not able to pry them out carefully from envelopes
that come your way

but nevertheless
i still converse with unknown faces
virtually online or in my head

because the conversations still manage to keep something inside me living
thinking, imagining

Writing out a Part of Me

2008-05-24T02:39:00.001+05:30

I opened the notebook and stared into the white empty pages...thats how I spent the past two hours. I wonder how many of us do this all the time without noticing it. Blank pages...they open up such infinite dream spaces....of random thoughts and stories, of intended essays and markups that eventually turn out very different from their initial appearances.

I remember staring into a blank page everytime I sat down for an exam...the mind raced differently then... in a maddening space with the sole intention of filling out the sheets...thats a different kind of staring into pages you know.

And this is a different kind...a sort of lazy languid gazing...marking out the detailed fineness or coarseness of the page until it blurs into memories and fantasies...things that you want to bring to life in words but don't know how to...or things that you have been able to pen down but you still have doubts about the outcome. On the rarest occasions, you probably were able to let your pen flow and were also satisfied with what greeted your eyes after a while.

I don't know where, when and how the lure of the crisp or yellowed blank pages of diaries and notebooks begins to tug deep within. The inviting contours of the windows word pad sometimes play the seductress now. Sometimes I have doubts about this maddening addiction, of this urge to scribble which shared space with random stuff like childhood toys and adolescent make-up. Sometimes there is a desire to keep it under wraps like a secret love-affair or a guilty indulgence. Sometimes there is self-censorship in fear of producing "bad" writing. Yet at other times there is this childlike demand for attention and any piece of writing irrespective of its merits or qualities is brandished about like a newly acquired pup or pair of shiny hair-clips .

Blank sheets...they soon get filled up. Reminders, to dos, shopping lists...often i fill up parts of me into sheets without knowing it. And yes thats another kind of staring into sheets that happens then. My two hours of staring has filled in today's sheets. Lots of rambling again.But then, to ramble is to be. Isn't it?

Requiem æternam dona eis

2008-05-18T03:29:00.000+05:30

have you ever seen a flower cry?
yesterday in the maelstrom the old pink rose bled out her heart crying for a lost dream
it shocks me to see her shriveled and drooping over a bevy of ravished young buds
the slit bamboo bower can no longer bear the weight of her tired old self
and she awaits her fate in a listless stupor
neither dead nor alive
ah yes she has had her share of sunny cheerful days
can she recall bhonti posing proudly by her side for the photograph in her new dress?
the fruitless mango tree behind shakes her head in silence and attempts to revive her with a shower of leaves
perhaps the gentle lady remembers her neighbor's youthful curiosity
when with her upturned face she used to watched the wily parrots with their sophisticated table manners enjoy a banquet in her bounty

tommorow mali will neaten the garden
i heard he is buzy clearing the clogged drains today
why do they have to prolong her woes so?
i wonder if she's taking in a last survey of her ruined paradise with her vacant eyes
i tell you sister
she screamed out for succor with silent tears yesterday
i watched helplessly through the window from the safety within these concrete walls
what else can a poor wallflower stuck in a suffocating ceramic vase do?

dear diary(2)

2008-03-19T21:55:00.000+05:30

Shards of a broken beer mug sequin the pine-needle raffia mat. O well, here's to another day!!!! Time to sweep away the memories of a dark yesterday and pull up the curtains to a lovely morning. Soon the cushions will be in place and walla...a spick and span living room. I look around at the warmth of the yellows and limes. Maybe I should arrange a few calendulas on the bookshelf. They would look good with the coffee-table van Gogh.

What should I cook for lunch? Something simple. He hates spice. Maybe lasagna. I haven't made that for a long time. Besides, I better not make occasion for a fresh volley of bruises and abuses...atleast not until the old ones have healed. It wouldn't do to wince every time I pose for a picture at Rajat's wedding this weekend would it? But wouldn't Tina's family prefer Indian food instead? They look like the plate-swiping, finger licking types in terms of culinary preferences. But looks can be deceptive you know. I know many stocky typical Punjabi looking fellas who devour a bland buffet with as much fervor as a Mexican meal . But maybe I should still grind and keep the spices ready to be on the safer side. I wish I could call her up and ask, it makes things so much easier but Tina, inspite of her diamonds and sequins still doesn't own a contact number... not even an old fashioned telephone. I know that pot-bellied husband of hers has three personal numbers...its become every CEO's necessity he had proudly claimed the other time while showing off to Vinay and others his new palm-top.I wonder why Tina cant have one. And she used to be so tech-savvy during college days...

Sunny skies. They make appearances seem so effortless.

extasy

2008-03-10T02:51:00.000+05:30

she looks down and arrests my gaze
i stand transfixed tantalized by her ever so slight sways

do i love her? i know not
she blinds me to all that is not her

is she my desire, my need or my destiny?
perhaps none perhaps i choose to make her all three

they'll probably think i have had one of those phases again.
will this one last into eternity?

she tempts me into making love to her
i a willing victim am only too happy to comply

we flourish in our little goldfish bowl
entwined in our little cocoon our haven and our bell jar

she beckons and chides me demanding vengeance and mercy
i a sincere player follow the rules of the game

we propel our paper boat into deeper seas and darker waters

she garlands me with coyness and clasps me to herself with a sudden fervour
i taste the mana as blood rushes up my veins

in union our bodies climax to a cresendo as motion and stasis ballet into a blur

in a fleeting glimpse she shows me our neverland
where tinkerbells and wendies do not need a buffer in the peterpans

i tunnel down with the white rabbit to alight at the castle in the clouds
as we suspend together all the while in mid-air

she bores into me hungrily devouring all i offer for the taking

i watch with dimming clarity the light and darkness swirl into each other
and wonder

did porphyria ever have it so good?

submission

2008-03-10T02:05:00.000+05:30

they tell me to punctuate my scribbles because that is how one should write
they tell me to capitalize the beginning of my sentences
they tell me to be my age my gender my culture
they tell me to keep in mind my familys honor respect and reputation
they tell me to follow norms and values
they tell me to believe in a mirage they call reality

i do all of that and i do it all the more when i don't
becoz today

they tell me its ok not to punctuate as per prescription
(thats how you make a radical statement)
they tell me its ok not to demarcate my beginnings and ends
(the idea of teleology is shelved into archives)
they tell me its ok not to accept stereotypical associations
(essentialism is old fashioned intellectual tete-a-tete)
they tell me its ok not to put family before self
(if you do you a certain system is still hegemonizing your mind)
they tell me its ok not to follow rules and traditions
(that is the accepted norm of the day after all)
they tell me its ok not to consider the mirage as real
(you cant be living in the twentyfirst century if you still think there is a real out there waiting to be captured!!!!)

dear diary

2008-01-28T09:30:00.000+05:30

it was a picnic...well supposedly.just him and me and the sunny skies.that sounds nice. i was waiting for a time when it would be just two of us together. no work no classes no trips no assignments. no family obligations no illnesses no festivities no funerals. just him and me and the sky above. i wondered if it was finally possible. could the two of us really meet without the daily routine intruding? he said he would make it up. for all those times i waited.for the calls that never came, for the meetings that never took place, for those secrets we never shared.i trust him. i know he would. he never meant for things to turn up that way either. for days he hunted for a fit location- where no man no beast could intrude. he planned it out. all i had to do was wait for him to pick me up. yes wait.does that sound familiar? maybe maybe not.anyway the rainclouds raced him to it and won.i am still waiting under the teary eyed skies.when is the picnic? should i even ask? well, i just did.why do i have a sinking feeling here's another question which will never see an answer?

herua swapoon (assamese)

2008-01-26T23:55:00.000+05:30

ou aakaxitora...
kua sun kenkoi pahoru tumak...
din jai jai baat najai tumar suwola hahitir maat
sendurali puwar pohore gussai endhar rati
nugusai tumar misiki hahi thoka seherati
aaji sesh porob mur ei jiwonor sangramot
eri jau aaji mayavi jog dhara
eribo nuwarim moi tumar modhur smoron
nuwarim eribo tumar prati mur kamona
kiyo disila tumi muk ek sunali prithivir swapoon
kele nu axa re korisila uttejit ei sui thoka hiyatik
kot jau moi etiya
kua aakaxitora
kar duwardolit usupi usupi koru moi mur sesh arghya
ou aakaxitora
kot heraigol amaar morjada amaar mohotwa

the promise of a rain drop...

2007-06-25T21:55:00.000+05:30

a drop of rain

fell... and then a second.

and then a third

and a fourth and a fifth...

i watched the mundane rhythm come alive

like a raga recreated from scattered sounds of nature

so familiar

yet so fresh...

so new....

i watched

and let the dancing droplets run down my tired dusty self.

i watched them taking away the dead in me with a funereal procession

like ants crawling away

into tiny crevices of the soil underneath...

i watched

my naked feet sink into the moist earth

get washed with the waters of the heavens

and anointed with the mud....

puddles here

streamlets there
a few fragile petals sail down the watery pathway

i watched
my yesterday morph into a ebbing dream of expectancy

and lift up my head towards the horizon...

i know the gilded skyline wont let me down today
already i can see the promise of a rainbow...

lines(1)

2007-06-23T22:59:00.000+05:30

I sing
Of tunes unrestrained
Of muses unheard and distant
Of poesy that jars and never blend into the cacophony of norms.
I paint
In colours untarnished
In hues unseen and obscure
In pictures that violate and never lend to the gallery of imposed order.
I dance
With bells unbraided
With beats unknown and strange
With rhythms that jostle and never tend to mingle into complacency.

oum tatshat...

2007-06-03T18:23:00.000+05:30

anantavatara...eternity in a formless form...achieved at the time of timelessness...at the time of cosmic harmony...when the panchakrita fuse with ananda...when distinctions blur and union is the oneness of creation and devastation shining bright with the opulance of the third eye...the moment of shrishti...of shakti...of shanti...

they say its kalyug...the time for the lord kalki to make his presence felt...time for the apocalypse to wash away the drought caused by tortorous nightmarish inhumanity time for karuna,kamana and maitreyee to flower from the tilled soils drenched in raktavarsha...

divinity will come and show itself says the pious and the polygots.divinity is here says the revolutionary zealot.divinity is dead says the sorrowful peacelover shaking his head...

spirit and species wage a battle for survival as the theologist and the technocrat call a stategic truce toward a coalition for continuity...it is time for a remainder of dharm and karm to nudge awake the slumbering humanity lying wrapped in the manifold blankets of self sufficiency and supposed helplessness...

it is dusk...it is yet again a timeless time caught between the day and the night...the darkness and the light...

caught? or is it the magnetic enigma straining at samay from spilling into chaos?dusk time ...time of fusion again..of life and death...time of mrityunjaya...but will it see the dark lord rise into the saptatandava for a new beginning?

its dusk afterall...and one can here the cosmic drums rolling already....

...but is it the celestial peals of a fresh hope...or is it yet again the rumble of gunshots drowning the sighs of yet another dying day?anantaavatara...its a long wait...

ओउम तत्शत

...doodling(1)...

2007-05-30T21:07:00.000+05:30

a jarring symphony booms past the abysmal frontiers of a blank memory...its time to rehearse the old merry quatro.step,ball,change,1 2...step,ball,change,1 2,...step, step ,hop ,clap 12...the body talks itself into a mechanical routine skipping,swirling,sashaying into forgotten edifices of the past...like a clockwrk mouse run loose... mocking... at unswept chocolate wrappers under unmade beds of sweet nothings ...at dusty coathangers and empty drawers of hope...at tear stained pages of a diary ripped apart and flung into a century old trashcan tucked away amidst the slimey odourous vapours of a decaying larkspur...but the mind still draws a blank...a cipher, a white wall.
recess time.time for a face wash and a quick snack.the body takes a break...and slinks down,slouching into the comfortable contours of a beanbag of dreams,of sunny yesterdays and moonlit garden seats...like a carefree child bubbling through the shades of summer in a gleeful pirouette...laughing...at silly jokes of grownup angst...at tawdry desires of forgotten destinies...at serious musings on a punch n judy show called life.the mind drifts into an exhausted sleep still unable to conjecture a thing.
time up...back to workouts and routines...back to the rigmarole called life...the body steps up,energised...but to an extent robot-like...ready to gruell through another semimechanical round of whimsical contortions and fanciful serenades...the mind drags itself along...hollow,undecided...emotionless ,blank...

SANE RAVINGS

2007-05-29T21:53:00.000+05:30

destiny

...a palid sun ...

...hot showers of rain....

...fiery dew drops scorch the petals of a touch me not...

...torrid thoughts and vapid visions scurry across like a hurricane of thorny cotton balls...

...dreary lullabys rock a thimble in a cradle unwrought...

...sour shadows of pain...

...an endless run...

diaspora

...ready rituals...

...faceless smiles of a dead new born...

...hasty turtle feet and flighty kiwi toes combat for the race of netherolympiads...

...traceless stiles of red sea corn...

...cold victuals...

insignia

power

greedy hands

a voice of dictatorial blindness

bloody sands

devour

insignia

...

diaspora

...

destiny

...